by Richard Amos
With those two dispatched, I sorted the pinned ones like the slayer of beasts I was. Then I sat and waited with my hand driving me crazy until the green light came—mine being the good kind unlike those bloody beetles—and did its work.
My sparks went out. No more beasts around.
Dean was still being doused with water.
“You okay?” Greg asked as Naomi went to Dean.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You went the color of Hulk,” he said.
“Healing,” I said. Though not straight away. There was what, a thirty second window? That was thirty seconds to really take some damage if things were going badly.
That was also the first time my friends had seen the healing power in action.
I was on my feet again. “Dean?”
Naomi had stopped the water. Dean was slumped against the rock wall, face bright red.
“Oh, no.”
“He’s okay, Jake,” she said. “At least I think so.”
Mr. Douglas’s car came roaring down to the gates, which swung open. He got out. “Come now. Leave the vehicle.”
“Go, Jake,” Greg said. “We’ve got this.”
I did as I was told. Greg and Naomi grabbed Dean and dragged him into the safety of the wards, getting him into the car. Once we were all inside, Mr. Douglas got us back to the house at breakneck speed.
Dean groaned as he was lifted off the backseat.
Please be okay … I begged the universe.
Chapter 21
“Daisybeetle,” Naomi said. “That’s what I call them. Go on, check the app.”
I didn’t, being more concerned with Dean stretched out on a hospital bed. Turns out there was a whole medical section on the ground floor of the mansion, fully stocked with medicine and potions, everywhere gleaming chrome and white.
A mask of gloopy stuff that looked like clay had been pasted on Dean’s face. His eyes were closed. He hadn’t come round to the land of the awake just yet.
“He’ll be okay, Jake,” she added. “I promise you. The water and this treatment will stop the toxin from doing any damage.” She waved a glass wand over his face with a pretty oval at the top. The oval lit up turquoise, blinked three times, and was gone—indicating no toxins present.
“When will he wake up?”
I hated that this was because of me. He’d jumped in, doing his job I suppose, to protect me from harm. That didn’t sit right. I was a sucker for riding the guilt wave. Even if I hadn’t done anything wrong, there it was, a parasite feeding off me. Like in school, when the teacher would say to the whole class that one of us had done something bad and they were looking for the culprit, there would be that nervousness in my belly as if it were me. And it wasn’t! I was a quiet kid, making myself as invisible as I could.
Now it was different. It was because of me. But what could I do? I had no control of any of this.
“At any time,” Naomi answered, “and be back to normal within a couple of hours. He’ll be okay to join us tonight for our case.”
I nodded as a response.
“See?” she said. “No worries at all.”
“Anyone want tea?” Greg asked. “I’m parched.”
My nerves were shot. A cuppa would be awesome.
Needaline …
“Yes, please,” I said. I sat down on the white sofa over by the main glass door.
Needaline …
My body responded to my inner pleas with the nasty habit of nail biting. Disgusting or not, I had to do it now I didn’t have cigarettes as my comfort blanket—or booze, or coke. It was better than shoving fingers up my nose in the context of bad habits.
“I’ll be back,” Greg said, sauntering off.
Naomi’s phone rang. “Hello? Yes, he’s fine, Karla. No problem. All taken care of. Yes, he’s making a full recovery. Yes. Yes. Okay. Bye.” She terminated the call.
“Karla?” I asked.
“Yep. Wants a full report.”
“Oh.”
“He really will be all right, babe,” she said.
“I know. I believe you.”
“You look so rattled. Bless ya. Daisybeetles are probably worse than the slug crabs.”
“I guess so.”
“Which reminds me.” She tapped her phone. “I need to come up with a better name than slug crab.”
“But that’s what they are.”
“Slimeyshells,” she said.
“That could work.”
“You think? Shall I do it?”
“Do it.”
She tapped away. “There, all updated.”
I stopped the finger chewing and leaned back into the sofa, drawing in a deep breath. I knew Dean was fine. Things were okay, crisis averted. The reality was really starting to settle in now. This was me, my destiny, my life now.
Where was that cup of tea?
Dean groaned. I was on my feet in an instant. His heavy eyelids opened a tad as I approached.
“Wakey wakey,” Naomi said. “Welcome back.”
Those dark eyes locked onto me.
“Hi,” he said weakly. With a heavy groan, his lids closed.
“Dean—”
He cut Naomi off. “I’m resting them.”
“I’d rather you keep them open, babe.”
“You the eye police?” A grin punctuated his comment.
“Yeah, that’s me. And you’d better do what I say.”
“Scary.”
“I will be.”
He opened his eyes.
“Just want to make sure you’re functioning,” Naomi said. “Don’t worry, the fatigue will start fading.”
“Good.” Once more, his eyes rolled over to me, then switched their focus to the ceiling. “Tricky fuckers, eh?”
“I’ll say.”
“Did you get them all?”
“I did.”
“Good boy.”
The way he said that was so husky, not in any way like praising a dog.
“Tea’s up,” Greg said, returning.
Thank God! Saved by the cuppa.
Greg handed out the mugs, and we all sat with Dean.
“So, Dean,” Naomi said. “Tell us about your life before all this.”
“Do I really have to talk now?”
“All part of you not falling asleep on me. Talk or I’ll sing. Trust me, I’m no Dylan Rivers.”
“I’d rather you sang than him,” Greg said.
“You know the rules,” Naomi said.
“Rules?” I asked.
“Never knock Dylan Rivers in front of Nay,” Greg said, looking a little afraid. “Sorry, Nay.”
“He’s the almighty.”
“Oh.”
Naomi’s head snapped my way, eyes narrowing. “You have a problem with my Sir Dylan?”
“Sir Dylan, is it?”
“To you lesser beings, yes.”
“I see your Dylan Rivers and present you with the best Dylan—Bob Dylan,” Dean said.
Greg snorted. “Shouldn’t have said that. She’ll turn you into a fly.”
“There is only one ruler of music.”
“And it ain’t Rivers,” Dean said.
“Seriously, mate,” Greg said. “The whole fly thing is a serious threat.”
“Got nothing against him,” Dean answered, “just not my thing.”
“How can you not love the drama of him?” Nay wondered. “My God, the shows he puts on!”
“I’ll give him that. The man can move and sing—just not into pop music.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“I’ve met him,” I chimed in.
Her head whipped round, her green eyes blazing. “What did you just say?”
Oh, balls. I swigged my tea, burning my tongue but holding it together. “I met Dylan Rivers once.”
“You’re not serious?”
“I am serious. It was less than four years ago when I was starting to get work.”
“Work as what?”
“A model?”
“Yep. Catwalks, magazine covers, the lot. I had it all for a while, a good two years of actual good times.”
“What made you stop?” Dean asked.
“Life … got complicated.”
“A model, eh?” Greg said. “Wow.”
“Yeah, it was fun until it wasn’t.”
He nodded, knowing all about my drug habit.
“And back to the point,” Nay said.
“Oh, yeah. So, I was on a job in Paris, modeling an underwear range called Candy Boy—lots of stripes and bright colors. Anyway, after the shoot, I was given VIP tickets by the designer to see Dylan Rivers sing at the Olympia. Me and the other model I did the shoot with went along to the show and met him afterwards. He was nice. I have a photo at home of us together.”
I thought Nay was gonna pass out. “You’re serious? You’re actually serious?”
“‘Course I am.”
“You were a model and got free bloody tickets to see Dylan Rivers, and you met him? You actually met him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
“I don’t really have one. Not a fan particularly, but I enjoyed the show.”
She slammed her mug down, tea flying everywhere. “Stuff like this is always wasted on those who don’t appreciate it. So not fair.” She actually pouted.
“Er, sorry.”
“You should be.”
“You’ve got some serious issues,” Greg said. “Thank God you’ve never met. He’d have a restraining order against you.”
Nay folded her arms and huffed, saying no more on the subject. But I could feel her glaring at me, and I didn’t dare look over at her.
“Anyway,” Greg said, “back to grilling Dean.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell.”
“I left behind a cat and a girlfriend in Brighton.”
I don’t know why that made me wince.
“We lived in a ground floor flat, for the cat, and had an all right life until I was summoned in the middle of the night to come here before it all got sealed up. My dad is fae, my mum a human from Singapore. She’s still there, while my dad is in Faerie. That’s my story, really.”
“Your girlfriend,” I said, “is … she’ll … damn.”
“Yeah, she’ll have forgotten all about me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nay said.
“It’s been three years,” he said. “She’ll have moved on in a big way. No way would Claire stay single for long.”
“I don’t get how that works,” I said. “How does someone move on with their life this way? One day you were there, the next you’re not. Then what? Doesn’t she walk around empty or something?”
“She can’t miss what wasn’t there,” Dean said. “At least now I wasn’t there.”
“That’s awful.”
“But necessary,” he said. He looked over at me. “I’m fine with it. It probably would’ve fizzled out sooner or later. We had an all right life, not a great one. At least she gets to keep the flat and Cuddles, the cat.”
“Cuddles?” Greg said. “What kind of name is that?”
“Appropriate, actually. If anything, she’s too cuddly. Like extreme cuddle monster.”
“Aw,” Greg said. “I love a cuddly pussy.”
“Don’t we all,” Nay said.
Greg roared with laughter. “I fell right into that one!”
The laughter was contagious, spreading through all of us, though my eyes were locked to Dean’s the whole time. That was awful. The poor bloke. He had a life with her, a proper life. Would they’ve gotten married, had kids? They’d taken the first step of living together. And it was all ripped away. But their life hadn’t been great, just all right—in his words. Could it be mended if this curse was lifted? What happened then? Because of the giggle we were having, I kept my mouth shut on that one. This was nice, these were my peeps. I really enjoyed these moments with them, snatching slivers of fun amongst the seriousness of the situation. That was the first time Dean had properly talked about himself. Normally, he listened or spoke about other things, never personal details. If only Coldharbour were a normal place where I could plant some roots and be … happy.
“Oh dear,” Nay said, wiping her eyes. “We’re like a load of kids.”
“Is she a supe?” Greg asked. “Your girl?”
“Nope. And she never knew about me either.”
“Whoa, how long were you together?”
“A year. Lived together three months.”
The laughter had well and truly retired.
“So,” Dean said, “I hear we’re all ready for a trip to the beach tonight? Wonder if it might be some serious muscle hiding out in those houses.”
“You think?” Greg said. “Did cross my mind. Why hide out there?”
Dean sat up.
“Look at that!” Nay exclaimed. “He’s a strong lad, our Dean.”
Dean reached for his tea on the table beside him. “Tea, long shower and a good dinner will really set me up for later.”
“We’re having steak,” Greg said. “Get ready to be amazed.”
Chapter 22
The temperature plummeted as the clock struck midnight.
Fed with a mind-blowing steak dinner whipped up by Greg, it was time to go investigating.
Being a Monday night, it would be easier to pull this off without much intervention needed on Dean’s part. Who in their right mind would want to be on the beach on a cold November evening with freezing sea air in their face? The streets would be sufficiently empty, the majority of city folk being happy Monday was over, tucked up in bed after a goodnight hot chocolate, safe and warm in their homes.
It was the best place for them in their false existence while beasts stalked the night beyond their drawn curtains.
I pulled on a black beanie hat, my boots and a long black coat. My nails were painted black too—a move to try and pretty them up from all the chewing. I used to wear nail polish loads, kind of my thing. Not so much now.
Everything about my outfit was fit for hiding in the shadows.
I was ready a little too early, half an hour before we were due to set off. Forgoing sitting on my bed and twiddling my thumbs, I decided to check if Dean was okay. Yeah, he’d been back to his normal self after steak, but I just wanted to be sure he hadn’t had a relapse. He’d retreated to his room as soon as he’d wolfed down the food, not to be seen again, rejecting the treacle sponge and custard. Was he mental or something?
Leaving my room, I strode down the corridor to see Dean’s door slightly ajar. He must be getting ready. I knocked. No answer.
“Dean?”
I pushed the door open a little, sticking my head through the gap. “Dean?” I said again, gently. My palms started to sweat. What if—
His bed was unmade, clothing on the floor. I pushed the door open a little more. He wasn’t on the bed, unconscious or dead. That was a relief. His room was the same layout as mine, done in the same décor. The lamp on the bedside table lit the room in an orange glow. There was a book there, The Dubliners by James Joyce. That was so far removed from my reading tastes.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
The bathroom door was closed, and Dean was behind it. Oh, balls. I needed to exit sharpish.
“Just, er, checking you were—”
Who slips on a pair of boxer shorts? Who, in boots that are supposed to possess a decent amount of grip, with carpet providing extra doses of friction, actually slips on a pair of discarded underwear and falls on his arse? Me, that’s who!
The bathroom door opened and there was Dean, very wet and very naked.
“What’re you doing on the floor?”
My eyes went south of their own volition, straight to the … it was big. And, gleaming in the lamplight, was a ring of metal adoring the tip of the monster.
Oh. My. God.
“Jake?”
“I, er.” My eyes wouldn’t shift away! They were locked on cock.
Shitshitshitshitshit!
I crawled, actually crawled, a few feet, finally pulling my eyes away, then got to my feet and tried to run. Again, I slipped on the same damned boxer shorts, this time tripping over my own feet, doing an ungracious dive right into Dean’s crotch, headbutting his penis.
“Holy fuck!” he yelled as we went down.
This wasn’t happening!
He was on his back, my face resting against … it. The metal ring … I could feel the metal ring on my cheek.
Oh. My. God.
“I-I’m s-s-s-o sor-sorry …”
I got to my feet again, not falling this time, and ran like hell to my bedroom. My face was hot and probably brighter than a tomato—it certainly felt like it was. I threw myself on the bed.
I’d now have to keep my face buried in the pillow forever more.
****
“Think it will snow?” Greg asked, looking up at the sky choked with dark clouds.
I slid into his car, not giving a crap. It was too cold to stand there and ponder snowflakes.
“Be back in a minute,” Greg said, poking his head through the open car door.
“Okay.”
Dean got in next to me and closed the door.
I shifted in my seat.
“Hey,” he said. “Brisk one tonight, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t remember the last time it was this cold.”
“No.”
What was this? Inane chit chat to gloss over the fact I’d just got an eyeful of his huge, pierced penis while rolling around on top of his boxer shorts? Okay, so I hadn’t been rolling around in them, but still.
I couldn’t look at him, yet decided to join in with the glossing. “Shame you missed pudding.”
“Not a pudding person.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“Give me the cheeseboard any day.”
“You’ll have to request it next time.”
“Can I request it do you think? I’d feel a bit cheeky.”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t bloody care.
Greg and Nay would get into the car soon and all would be well, lots of lovely distraction. They could talk to him, and I could gaze out of the window and try to get the images of Dean’s meat and two veg out of my head. Shame there wasn’t bleach for memory. Though it wasn’t an unpleasant image.